As the years have gone by, I
have come to realize that “Sex
and the City” is a lot like a cool
aunt. For the sake of the analogy,
imagine this aunt is white. As a
child, you thought this aunt was
glamorous, witty and exciting,
but as you’ve matured, the façade
crumbled. In reality, this aunt
is not as smart as she thinks she
is, she disguises prejudice as
humor, and fetishizes Black men
uncomfortably too much to be as
colorblind as she claims.
I sighed with relief upon
realizing “Sex and the City”
turns 20 this year, because with
two decades under its belt, the
show,
like
the
hypothetical
aunt, is eligible to be deemed
“of a different time.” It’s easy to
write off “Sex and the City” as a
problematic fav, a guilty pleasure,
something not to be taken too
seriously. After all, there is no
clear malice in the show’s tone-
deafness. It’s just that — tone-
deaf. Ignorant. Despite this truth,
it is undeniable “Sex and the City”
had a hand in promoting the
symbolic annihilation of women
of color on screen. And as much
as I would love to stop writing
this article, sit down and watch a
marathon of Season 2 (the show
at its finest), I can’t. There needs
to be an open discussion about
the role “Sex and the City” and
others have in indoctrinating
women of color into the culture
that heralds white women as
beautiful, central and worthy
of love while women of color,
in contrast, are discarded to
the margins without a second
thought.
I grew up on “Sex and the
City”. I’ve seen every episode,
can identify seasons by Carrie’s
hairstyle and for a while listed
Carrie Bradshaw as my role
model and sole aspiration for
adulthood. To me, “Sex and
the City” was infallible … until
I re-watched an episode that
threw my entire perception of
the show into question. It’s called
“No Ifs, Ands, or Butts”, and the
B-plot centers around Samantha
partaking in the “revolutionary”
act of dating a Black man, Chivon.
Conflict quickly arises when
Chivon’s sister, Adeena, tells
Samantha she doesn’t want her
brother dating a white woman.
No deeper explanation is given
as to why Adeena thinks this
way, making her appear to be an
irrationally prejudiced, cracker
hater. Mild disapproval from
Adeena eventually erupts into
a fully-fledged altercation at
a nightclub between her and
Samantha.
While watching, I paused. Not
only did I find myself mentally
cheering for Adeena, but for the
first time in all of my viewings
of this episode, I felt a bizarre
sense of connection to her that
typically does not apply for one-
episode characters.
I now assume that my long-
standing
ignorance
of
this
episode’s (and in a larger context,
the show’s) problematic nature
was a result of its striking
parallel to my everyday life.
From second to eighth grade, I
was one of two Black students
(the only Black female) in a class
of 60. The oversaturation of
whiteness emanating from my
television screen felt normal —
I felt as though I was the thing
that needed to be adjusted. This
habit of adjusting myself was
taken to the next level when I
indoctrinated my middle school
friends into the fandom. We all
attempted to covertly alter our
personalities to better match
the women’s of “Sex in the
City”. I was almost completely
successful in my inhabitation of
the role — the only thing missing
was a love interest. To say the
least, my friends did not have this
affliction. I began to wonder why
I was never asked to slow dance
awkwardly to “Drops of Jupiter”
at the winter dance. Why did
all of my friends get special
Valentine’s Day gifts while I
was left with nothing but Fun-
Dip stained fingers and a shitty
attitude for the remainder of
the day? The same exclusionary
feeling I’d get momentarily while
watching “Sex and the City” had
begun to creep into my everyday
life.
When you watch television,
by definition, you are a detached
spectator of the action. But,
a part of you is supposed to
relate to the characters and the
situations. Without a doubt, I
related to (as much as a middle
schooler
could)
the
central
characters of “Sex and the City”,
but I always knew I did not look
like them. Characters that looked
like me were either invisible or
two-dimensional,
stupid
and
buffoonish. For a while, my
coping mechanism was to assert
it was “just TV,” and it couldn’t be
completely accurate in relation to
my life. This resilience began to
cave when the same scenarios
that I had written off as “fake”
started to occur for my friends —
just not me. In addition, I began
to question, with every new show
I started, why did I always have
to strain to picture myself in
these everyday situations? Why
can’t someone look like me and
share my personality traits?
I began to see the world as
solely white. I saw courtship,
love, sex and dating through a
solely white and heteronormative
lens. I’d realize in my later teen
years that by seeing only white
people depicted as glamorous,
complex, dynamic and witty,
I and clearly others began to
conflate
those
characteristics
with the skin color with which
they
were
most
regularly
associated. Spoiler: it wasn’t my
own. Being white meant being
the default, being regular. Being
Black or another race meant you
were there to serve a purpose. I
could not simply be. Everyone
wants to believe they are smart,
charming and worthy of love. I
thought I was these things. The
television disagreed with me. I
fell victim to one of American
society’s greatest traps: Rather
than
vilifying
the
horrible
depictions, I began to vilify my
own Blackness and the over-
pronounced
“Blackness”
of
characters onscreen.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, March 19, 2018 — 3A
As a Muslim in the United
States, it wasn’t unusual for
me to feel like I didn’t belong
here. As if I was taking up space
that wasn’t mine to occupy.
I’ve spent too much of my life
trying to convince people that
I’m American enough, while at
the same time almost doubting
it myself. As a South Asian
Muslim, I didn’t expect to see
myself in any of the exhibits
at the National Museum of
African American History and
Culture, and yet, as I walked
through rows of artifacts, one,
in particular, caught my eye. It
looked like Arabic calligraphy.
I took a step closer and realized
that it was a verse from the
Quran. In fact, it was one that
I had learned as a small child
and I said it out loud to myself
as I read the description — a
slave had written this Surah and
their
Arabic-illiterate
owner
thought it was a sign they had
successfully converted the slave
out of Islam. This was one of
many moments at the museum
where I was suddenly overcome
with emotion — as I blinked
rapidly and tried to focus, I
thought about what it must be
like to be forced to stop engaging
with one’s faith.
Though
my
own
circumstances
are
vastly
different, and the ways in
which my family suppresses
our engagement with Islam are
drastically less, in that brief
moment I felt extremely touched
by the story behind this artifact.
My
family
avoids
running
errands before or after attending
Masjid
because
we
never
know if someone will refuse us
service because we’re dressed
differently. My dad introduces
himself
by
a
stereotypical
European name at work because
his real name, Husain, combined
with his long, dark beard remind
people too much of terrorism.
I don’t like telling new people
I’m Muslim — the inevitable
questions about “my thoughts”
on the latest act of terrorism
are too exhausting to keep
answering. Visiting the National
Museum of African American
History and Culture reminded
me that the problem wasn’t me
— my feelings of not belonging
in the United States stemmed
from other people’s perception
of me and my identities, not my
identities themselves.
To clarify, I have not been
enslaved,
forced
to
convert
from my religion or experienced
oppression at the scale that
the slave who wrote the Surah
had, and yet, I reacted to this
particular
artifact
in
such
an unexpected way. It was a
reminder that the South Asian
Muslim
community
can
do
better. We cannot simply value
Black
Americans
for
their
contributions to sports and the
entertainment industry; we must
also recognize the contributions
that Black people have made
to advance society, including
fighting for the rights of other
minority groups in the United
States. Despite a history of anti-
Blackness within the South
Asian community, the Black
community has always stood
in solidarity with us. We must
recognize the ways in which
we benefit from the civil rights
work the Black community has
done — all of our oppression is
tied together and standing up for
Black Muslims is also standing
up for ourselves. As Fannie Lou
Hamer said, “... nobody’s free
until everybody’s free.” We
cannot be free if we continue to
exclude our Black siblings from
practicing our faith together.
The experiences of Muslims
in America were unpleasant (to
say the least) from the very start.
In the past, we can safely assume
this oppression stemmed from
colonizers — the people who
enslaved other human beings
and treated them like property.
However, in the present day,
we must acknowledge that the
oppression of Black Muslims
also comes from other Muslims.
To my fellow South Asians, I
implore you to think critically
about whether we are truly
making
Black
Muslims
feel
welcome in our Masjids, our
communities and our lives. The
Muslim diaspora in the United
States has continuously erased
the voices of Black Muslims in
our community. I’ve seen fellow
South Asian Muslims supporting
various movements across the
world, and yet, when it comes to
supporting Black Muslims, the
silence is deafening.
The Muslim community as
a whole has a lot of work to do
to make sure all Muslims feel
included, including our Black
siblings. We must realize that
though it seems the South
Asian and Black communities
are distinct, there are many
ways in which we are also
connected. The artifact from
the museum is proof that some
of these connections go back to
long before the founding of this
country. The overlap between
the Black and South Asian
communities
are
numerous,
and exhibits like the one at the
National Museum of African
American History and Culture
are
important
not
only
to
showcase the history of Black
Americans, but to remind non-
Black Americans that the link
between our communities is
built into our country’s history.
Asian/Pacific
Islander
American
Heritage
Month
celebrations have begun, and
while I am actively taking part
in celebrating A/PIA history, I
have also taken time to reflect on
my engagement with the A/PIA
community on campus.
A/PIAs are often subject
to narratives that paint us as
a monolith — a homogeneous
group
of
people
from
an
arbitrarily
drawn
region
of
the world. These narratives
constrain what we and those
outside of our circles perceive as
A/PIA, and they are — as I have
increasingly come to realize —
violently perpetuated not only
by the forces of white supremacy
but by our own communities.
The notion that all A/PIAs
come from similar classes and
cultural
backgrounds
paints
all A/PIAs as holding equal
privilege, entirely ignoring the
ethnic hierarchies that exist not
only in Asia, but in our Asian/
Pacific Islander communities
in the diaspora. The forces of
exclusion
and
elitism
these
dynamics create, however, go
largely unacknowledged.
This
is
despite
the
fact
acceptance in self-proclaimed
A/PIA spaces on campus often
necessitates assimilation into an
upper-class, mono-racial/ethnic
and East-Asian consciousness.
I have often felt the need to
qualify my presence in these
spaces
with
explanations
regarding my bi-ethnicity or
assertions that I am, in fact,
just as entitled to the label of
“A/PIA” as everyone else in the
room.
It has been a lifetime of these
qualifications that leads me to
this; it is so crucial that we are
able to confront the fact the
monolith is not only an idea that
is arbitrarily imposed on us, but
also a rhetoric that defines who
is recognized as a valid member
of this community. I feel this
every time I walk into an A/
PIA space where there is no
one of my skin color, my openly
bi-ethnic identity or my cultural
background. I feel it every time
we preach “unity” but fail to
vocalize the ways in which
intra-Asian/Pacific
Islander
imperialism has created tension
between us. I feel it every
time the notion of a unified,
invincible A/PIA identity masks
the realities of exclusion in our
community.
Thus,
“A/PIA
Heritage
Month:
Combating
the
Monolith” begins today. This
spotlight series will highlight A/
PIAs who may not necessarily
fall into the notion of what an
A/PIA is or should be. Though
this series will not paint a
comprehensive picture of all A/
PIA narratives, I hope that this
month we can begin scratching
the surface of a community that
harbors an immense diversity in
culture and experience.
My reflection is not indicative
of the thoughts, feelings or
convictions
of
those
who
will come after me. They are
simply my own. In this vein,
the stories you will hear over
the course of this month are
not ones that should be viewed
as
representative
of
their
respective
identities.
Rather,
they are individual narratives
that
have
developed
and
emerged from experiences just
as vivid, intimate and whole as
yours.
With that, I wish you all a
happy A/PIA Heritage Month!
Let us engage in the celebration
of the rich cultures and identities
that make up our community,
and let us strive toward an ideal
of unity that recognizes and
celebrates our difference.
The University of Pittsburgh.
The
University
of
New
Hampshire.
Oklahoma
State
University.
Kansas
State
University.
And
the
University
of
Michigan.
Predominantly
white
institutions all over the country
have repeatedly failed to fulfil
their due diligence and protect
their students of color from anti-
Blackness and racist acts that
occur on their campus.
And
just
this
weekend,
a
picture
of
a
white
girl
named
Lauren
Fokken
and
her
non-Black-person-of-
color-yet-complicit
friend
in
blackface
with
the
caption
“#blacklivesmatter.”
This is not a joke.
Your picture, Lauren Fokken,
is exactly why we need a Black
Lives Matter movement.
You believe your pompous,
degrading picture was funny.
You think that you can put on
a black-colored face mask and
undercut an organization and
movement that has organized
to
expose
and
eventually
ameliorate the unfair treatment
of Black people by police. This
organization
recognizes
the
incarceration of Black folks
at astronomically high levels
compared
to
their
white
counterparts. This organization
is
expansive
and
affirms
the lives of Black queer and
transgender
folks,
disabled
folks,
undocumented
folks,
folks with records, women and
all Black lives along the gender
spectrum. Black Lives Matter
works to center the narratives of
those who have been repeatedly
marginalized
within
Black
liberation
movements.
Black
Lives Matter repeatedly affirms
the humanity, contributions to
society and resilience of Black
people in the face of deadly
oppression.
And
so,
Lauren
Fokken,
and
mysterious
non-Black
oppressive person: Making a
mockery of Black people’s fight
for survival in an increasingly
racist and white supremacist
nation is not funny.
It’s racist.
Now we could brainstorm a
few solutions to this problem:
Stop the watering down of the
race and ethnicity requirement
so that you can take almost any
class and have it count for race
and ethnicity. Put cameras in
residence halls so that ignorant
little white kids don’t keep
writing “N*****” on the back of
Black kids’ doors.
These are proactive steps in
the right direction.
But truly, a complete change
of the University campus culture
needs to take place.
This
campus
needs
to
start
encouraging
cultural
competency at every corner and
classroom.
Maybe if Becky had paid a bit
more attention in that watered-
down race and ethnicity class
she took, she wouldn’t have
harmed an entire community
and perpetuated racist minstrel-
like ideology and golliwog vibes.
But in the meantime, Lauren
and your non-Black POC friend:
Stop using Black people as
the butt of your jokes. The
minstrelsy,
tokenization
and
caricatures must stop.
I do, however, want to note
how ironic this picture is.
Here,
a
white-presenting
woman and an Asian-presenting
man are trying to make their
skin smoother and happen to
make a reference to Black people
in the process.
In the words of abolitionist
John Swett Rock:
“If old mother nature had held
out as well as she commenced,
we should, probably, have had
fewer varieties in the races.
When I contrast the fine tough
muscular system, the beautiful,
rich color, the full broad features,
and the gracefully frizzled hair
of the negro, with the delicate
physical
organization,
wan
color, sharp features and lank
hair of Caucasian, I am inclined
to believe that when the white
man
was
created,
nature
was
pretty
well
exhausted
— but determined to keep up
appearances, she pinched up his
features, and did the best she
could under the circumstances.”
Keep doing your face masks,
boo.
CARRIE’d away from your issues
ROSEANNE CHAO/Daily
Connecting our Muslim histories
SAM SO/Daily
To the people who still do racist shit
Combating the monolith: Part one
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com
“A complete change
of the University
campus culture
needs to take place.”
ALLISON OWENS
MiC Contributor
ALLISON BROWN
MiC Contributor
PRIYA JUDGE
Assistant MiC Editor
ZAINAB BHINDARWALA
Senior MiC Editor